Becoming Rain Page 12

  And I just told my target a personal truth about me. Clara, not Rain. I make a mental note to add that to the file, to keep everything in check. But I’ve coupled it with a strategic lie about my grandfather, who’s still alive and well in Palermo, bless his soul.

  “Huh . . . Mine died of lung cancer, too. So did my grandmother.” When Luke pauses on me for a long moment, then glances down at the cigarette in his hand, as if reconsidering, I know I’ve struck the chord I was aiming for. Finding a way to relate to your target is critical. “I’ve been thinking about quitting.” With a sigh, he lights up. “Maybe after things calm down.”

  “Are things stressful for you right now?” I keep my voice airy, curious.

  “Just work shit.”

  “That big, angry guy in your office the other day?”

  Luke dips his head to the side to show me his wide, genuine smile, making my stomach flip. “Who, Miller?”

  “Is that the one who hates your guts?”

  He laughs, taking another drag. “So, you noticed that.”

  “Kind of hard not to. Why does he hate you so much?”

  “Fuck, who knows. Bitter, I think. I was supposed to take over running the garage. But that’s been delayed indefinitely, so his job is safe. I thought he’d stop being such an ass.”

  “Are you going to do something else instead?”

  He doesn’t answer at first, just smoking his cigarette and peering out at the water through the windows. For a moment, I’m afraid I’ve gone too far.

  “Nah, I’ll stay in the garage. Rust is giving it to me eventually. But my uncle’s got me doing some other stuff for him. He has a few businesses on the go.”

  I love how criminals call their illicit activities “business.” Like it’s a legitimate thing that they get registered and that they pay taxes to the government for income reported. “That sounds . . . exciting?” I’d love to probe more about these “businesses,” but I have to slip in my questions strategically.

  “Yeah . . . I don’t know yet. It’s still new.”

  “You and your uncle seem like you’re close.”

  “We are. He basically raised me. My dickhead dad skipped out on us when I was six. My mom’s always been a bit flaky and unstable, and when he left, she went offside. Depression and all that. She lost her job and we moved in with my grandparents.” He pauses, as if thinking back to his childhood. “Rust was only twenty-­eight years old. The last thing he wanted to do was inherit two little kids, but he really stepped up. He paid for everything. Made sure I was signed up for soccer and baseball—all those kid things that my mom was too out of it to pay attention to and my grandparents really didn’t understand. They were old-school Russian, you know? Having clothes on your back and food on the table was all they ever focused on.” Yeah, I understand that. He butts his cigarette into a fancy ashtray stand and strolls over, my nose catching a mixture of cologne and tobacco as he slides into the seat next to me. Normally I can’t stand the smell of cigarette smoke, and yet for some reason it doesn’t bother me on Luke. “Rust paid for private school, for college, for my mechanic’s program. He used to take me to sports games. Spoiled me rotten, basically. Still does.” Luke chuckles. “All my friends were jealous. He paid more attention to me than any of their real dads did to them.” His voice has grown husky. “I owe Rust everything that I have.”

  Enough to not give him up if you’re looking at jail time? The soft look in Luke’s eyes as he talks about his uncle makes me question whether Sinclair’s right with this plan. Would our primary target break if a figurative gun were put to his head?

  I’m not so sure.

  “You seem to be doing well for yourself,” I agree. “I mean, your condo, your car . . .” I don’t mean to let my eyes rake over him so overtly as I add, “ . . . you.”

  He smirks, his thigh nudging up against mine as he stretches his legs out. No concern for my personal space. And I don’t mind at all. Maybe that Champagne put me over the edge. Holding up the glass of golden liquid that he brought onboard, he says, “This is a twenty-thousand-dollar glass of scotch. My second, tonight.”

  I know my eyebrows are jumping halfway up my forehead but I can’t help myself. More than a third of my annual salary about to go down his throat. I hate rich people. “So, what does a twenty-­thousand-dollar glass of scotch taste like?”

  He offers it to me and I take it, our fingers grazing, the simple touch causing ripples through my body that I wish I didn’t feel. I should say no to hard liquor, but when am I ever going to get a chance like this again? “How am I supposed to drink this?”

  Shifting even closer to me, until every part of my right side from my shoulder down to my knees is pressed against that hard body of his, he ropes an arm around my shoulders. “First, you let it coat the glass. Like this.” Covering my hand with his, I watch the liquid swirl around the glass, his fingers filling the spaces between mine. “Then you inhale.” He holds the glass up to my nose.

  “Smells . . . smoky?”

  With his free hand, he tucks a strand of my hair back behind my ear in a slow, almost cautious movement, before lifting the glass to my mouth. “Just a tiny sip. Just enough to taste it.” His eyes drop to my mouth as I follow instruction.

  And struggle not to grimace from the potent flavor.

  He grins, not offended in the slightest. “Not a fan?”

  “Here.” I push it forward until it’s fully within his grasp and my hand is free. Because I’m enjoying the feel of him too much. “You drink your twenty-thousand-dollar-a-shot manly scotch and I’ll stick with this girly Champagne.” I mocked it earlier, but it’s actually quite good.

  He chuckles, falling back into the couch, his eyes roaming over the interior of the yacht. Another sip. Maybe two glasses of that will loosen his tongue enough for me to pry answers from him. “I think I need to start hanging out with Aref more. I could get used to this.”

  So could I, under different circumstances. “He seems nice. How do you know him?”

  “I just met him tonight, actually. But I already like him.” A flash of doubt crosses his face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, just . . .” He frowns, pausing as if to decide something. “I work for my uncle and, as much as I love him, he leaves me in the dark a lot of the time. It can get frustrating.”

  His gaze wanders off over the water, seemingly deep in thought. I nudge his leg with mine. “You know, I’ve been told I’m a great listener.”

  “I can believe it.” His hand falls to my back and rests there, the heat from it searing my bare flesh above my dress line. And then he heaves a sigh. “It’s nothing. Just . . . Aref wants to play a bigger role in Rust’s business and I’m trying to figure out why Rust hasn’t agreed. He’d be way better to deal with than the assholes we work with right now.”

  “Assholes?”

  “Yeah.” He tips his head back and finishes his drink. “Russian assholes.”

  “Those crazy Russians,” I tease, earning Luke’s chuckle and a gentle squeeze of my shoulder.

  “Hey, bite your tongue, woman. I’m half-Russian. My mom’s side.”

  Come on, Luke . . . give me more. “Well, I’m sure your uncle must have his reasons.” I pause. “What kind of business is it?”

  “Cars. We sell cars, all over the world.”

  “Oh yeah? What kind?”

  “All kinds. My uncle co-owns RTM International.”

  Right . . . the legitimate business. The one I highly doubt Luke is talking about right now. But maybe he is, that little hopeful voice in the back of my mind purrs. Maybe this is all just a terrible misunderstanding. After all, why would a man like Aref, who has so much to lose, get involved with a car theft ring?

  Tipping back the rest of his drink, Luke slips his hand into mine and pulls me up with him. “Come on. We should go join the part
y.”

  I let him lead me down the path lit by flickering torches and toward the hordes of privileged guests, secretly enjoying the warmth of his hand within mine.

  Telling myself this is all good for the case.

  Aref meets us at the bottom of the steps up to their two-tier deck. “So Elmira tells me that you enjoyed the tour of our yacht?”

  “I did. And your wife is lovely. Thank her again for me.”

  “Have Luke buy you one for your birthday,” Aref jokes, winking.

  “Don’t be teaching her any bad habits,” Luke answers with a laugh, just as easily.

  “About that issue . . .” Aref’s dark eyes level Luke’s. “It’s all good.”

  “Yeah? Great. Thanks, man.” He reaches out to shake the tall man’s hand.

  “You give me a call tomorrow so we can sort out the details. And talk to your uncle for me, okay?”

  “I will,” Luke promises somberly. “I’m actually heading out to do that right now.” I can see the admiration he has for Aref in his eyes. That’s a little concerning. Being too trusting, too open with these kinds of people never works out. Guys like Aref get where they are by being as ruthless as they are generous. Whatever Luke may be involved in, I already know that I don’t want to find him lying in a gutter.

  Someone taps Aref on the shoulder, and with one last salute toward Luke, he gets pulled into another conversation.

  “That worked out well . . .” Luke murmurs, his hand settling on the small of my back. “Let’s get out of here.”

  ■ ■ ■

  Luke’s Porsche coasts into my condo entrance with me silently wishing the Feds had gotten me one of these instead of my Audi.

  “Thanks for tonight. It was . . . educational, seeing how the disgustingly rich live.”

  He laughs, revving the engine, his gaze skating over my legs again. I’ve caught him doing it several times tonight. I need to keep him interested for another date, so I shift in my seat, casually letting my dress slide up just enough, given he seems to respond well to my body. He squeezes his eyes shut in response and begins whispering, “Glass . . . glass . . . glass,” under his breath.

  “What?”

  Heaving a sigh, he reaches over and pulls my hand to his mouth, muttering, “Nothing,” as he kisses the backs of my fingers. A gesture I have always written off as completely cheesy and yet somehow sends tingles straight to my thighs. I think Luke is seriously into me, a realization that may be making me excited for the wrong reasons. “I’ll give you a call this week. Maybe we can go out again.”

  “I’d really like that.” Letting go of my hand, he leans back in his seat. I take that as my signal to leave, so I do. I can feel his eyes on my back all the way to the condo doors, before he peels out of the driveway.

  And I silently accept that I don’t want the night with him to end.

  Chapter 17

  ■ ■ ■

  LUKE

  The heavy, rhythmic bass at The Cellar is normally a soothing lullaby to me. But tonight it’s irritating.

  Or maybe it’s Rust that’s getting under my skin.

  “The way I see it, dealing with Aref makes way more business sense than wasting our time with Andrei and Vlad. He has his very own fucking freight system, for Christ’s sake!”

  “He’s young and he’s arrogant.”

  “I’m young and arrogant!” I throw back.

  “He comes from an endless supply of old money. It’s a dangerous combination. Look . . .” Rust leans forward, and his voice drops. “Aref’s already shipping all of our product. Who’s to say he won’t try to use that against us in the future? Hold us hostage, claim a bigger share.”

  “You mean like Vlad?” I pause. “Aref seems trustworthy.”

  “Don’t be naïve. You can’t trust anyone but your blood. You and me, that’s all.” Rust sighs. “Besides, we can’t just break ties with a man like Andrei.”

  “But they’re being dickheads. They’re ripping us off. You said so yourself—you don’t want Vlad to have a monopoly on our business.”

  “I was pissed off,” he mutters through a drink.

  “Okay, fine. So we keep getting bent over a table and fucked by Andrei and Vlad, but let’s see what Aref can do. It’s a big world. Why not have a partnership with him, too?”

  “Going into business with anyone else while I’m in business with Andrei is risky.”

  “What if I ran it? You keep your deal with Andrei and I deal with Aref.”

  “There’s my entrepreneurial nephew . . .” He pats my back. “Let me give it some thought. No more talk of it now, though.” His eyes flicker up, past me, and he smiles. “There she is.”

  The smell of coconut and flowers hits me. “Hey, Luke.”

  I look over and up to get an eyeful. “Hey, Pris.” She likes showing her tits off in tight shirts and I can’t help looking at them, even though I’ve seen them so many times now, they’re no longer especially thrilling.

  Her sharp blue eyes float over my empty glass. “How about I drive your car home for you?”

  I’ve had too much to drink. That’s always her excuse to get into my bed. I guess she didn’t ensnare any sugar daddies tonight and her ego’s taken a hit. Her confident stride, her nose in the air—it’s all an act. I remember when this all started between us, when I first came here with Rust, started meeting his friends, his associates. Started being treated like a man. She was already working behind the bar. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her. I thought I was such a lucky bastard when she started flirting with me. I heeded Rust’s warnings, though—he was right about the kind of girl she is—and kept my heart out of it.

  And because I did, we’ve become odd friends. Or at least, we’re comfortable together. We’ve gotten past the acts we put on for others. Neither of us pretends to be something we’re not. We’ve been playing this game for a year and a half now. Long enough that I can tell her to wipe that bright pink lipstick off her lips before they come anywhere near me tonight.

  Am I in the mood for this, though? Rain’s smart, crystal-blue eyes flicker through my thoughts. I like her. Her and her cute nose as she scrunched it up, hating the scotch. Her, standing next to me, my arm linked with hers.

  Maybe I’m starting to like her too much.

  It doesn’t matter. I’m not wrapping my brand-new Porsche around a light post and, if anyone can handle a stick, I know Priscilla can.

  “Yeah, fine. Let’s go.”

  Chapter 18

  ■ ■ ■

  CLARA

  “Someone’s been drinking my beer.”

  “Said Papa Bear . . .” Warner’s blank stare tells me he doesn’t catch my Goldilocks reference. “You know I hate beer.”

  He gestures at the inside of my fridge. “I had six in here. Now I have five.”

  “Yeah, I gave one to 12.”

  He scowls, cracking open a fresh one. “My beer is off-limits.”

  “If he shows up here, I have to offer him something. Which reminds me . . . I thought this place was out-of-bounds for my cover team now that he knows where I live.”

  “Are you expecting him at . . .” He glances at the clock. “. . . two a.m.?”

  “No, but I’m also not expecting my handler, and yet here we are.”

  “I’m not your handler, I’m your cranky asshole of a brother, remember?”

  “Stepbrother,” I correct him, rolling my eyes.

  “Whatever. Bill’s on him. He’s out at the club.” Clinking his beer against my glass of wine, he announces, “You did great tonight. Sinclair’s happy.”

  “You talked to him?”

  “An hour ago. Gave him a rundown. I think there’s enough here to keep the investigation going.”

  Seriously? “There’s really not that much.”

  Warner shakes his head, lau
ghing. “Do you have any idea whose house you were at tonight?”

  “I’m guessing the man who ships their stolen cars.”

  “Well, look at you, Nancy Drew.” He chuckles. “Aref Hamidi. Owner of Hamidi Enterprises, one of the wealthiest international freight companies in the world, going back five generations. Also one of the richest families in Iran.”

  “Impressive fact gathering.”

  His brow quirks. “Oh, it gets better. He’s married to Elmira Zamani, who has ties to the now dethroned Iranian empire. As in, she’s distant royalty. As in, almost a real live fucking princess.”

  “Wow.” I think back to her shiny black hair, her exotic features, her regal movements. Doesn’t surprise me one bit.

  “Yeah. Between the two of them, they have enough money to feed a third-world country.”

  That doesn’t surprise me either. “And their money’s dirty?”

  “All money is, somewhere along the line,” Warner mutters between sips, his cynical side making its appearance. “But, no, not that we’ve known of, up until now. The Hamidi family has been on our radar for over two decades, given their connections to that part of the world and their business. Right after 9/11, when we were able to get warrants signed with nothing more than a loud sneeze, we used to jam them up bad with searches. They always took it in stride, and they always turned up clean.”

  “So, what do you think this means?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe Aref isn’t following the family’s legitimate ways.”

  “Maybe Luke was there on legit business for RTM,” I say, playing devil’s advocate. Maybe his uncle isn’t dragging him down with him.

  “Maybe. All I know is Sinclair was like a fat kid in a candy store tonight. We thought Rust’s network was strictly with the Russian mob, but this is even bigger.”

  “I guess he’ll get an extra-big shiny medal then, won’t he?” I mutter, wryly.

  Warner chuckles, perching on the arm of the couch. “Something like that.”

  I suck back my wine, considering the expanding landscape of this criminal enterprise. “I don’t get it. I mean, you have that much money and yet you go and do something stupid and illegal to get more?” My words are rhetorical, of course. Everyone has their ­motivations—even criminals. Usually it’s pure, blind greed.